


Settling Accounts

by CreativeWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, two characters that just needed this moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:10:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeWords/pseuds/CreativeWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft goes to Baker Street to settle up accounts with Mrs. Hudson. </p><p>(Told from both their perspectives because I couldn't choose. And it's a bit rough, but the scene is what played out in my head)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settling Accounts

She’s dusted everything twice this morning.

He actually checked his tie when he left the house. He’s been fidgeting with it all the way to Baker Street. Worse than visiting Mummy.

She sets up the kettle five minutes before he said he’d be there. If there’s one thing she can count on, it’s that Mycroft Holmes is as precise as his brother is erratic. Was.

Mrs. Hudson dabs at her eyes and peeks out the window to look for the shiny black car. At exactly 2:14, the car turns onto Baker Street and purrs up to the curb.

Mycroft gets out, adjusting his tie once more, and walks to the door with almost military precision. He has studied the part he must play, and knows the exact level of rigid mourning he must portray. His watch ticks to 2:15 at the moment he knocks on the door.

She makes him wait a moment or two longer than is strictly necessary. It’s not that she’s angry, necessarily, but it’s only been three days, the funeral is tomorrow, and it’s just a bit early for Mycroft to come round to settle Sherlock’s accounts.

He lets his shoulders sag a little as he waits. He’s supposed to look careworn, not irritated with a brother who isn’t as dead as everyone believes. This personal visit is, he believes, an unnecessary risk. But when she answers the door, he manages a tired smile that speaks of sleepless nights and a fragile calm he’s presenting to the world. If there’s one thing he can count on, it’s that his brother’s landlady is more perceptive than the average Londoner.

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mycroft.”

He steps inside and she motions him toward her flat. He looks like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. He’s clutching that umbrella, even though it’s not supposed to rain till after dark, and he’s got lines on his face that weren’t there when last she saw him.

“This can wait, you know. I’m not – it’s no trouble to me. I’m sure you have quite enough -”

“Thank you, but this won’t take long.”

He accepts the tea she offers with a nod, not bothering to speak till she’s finished her fluttering and is sitting across the table from him. She accomplishes this in remarkably short time. Silence is effective in that way.

She takes a sip of tea and waits, feeling it’s only polite. He has had two sips and seems to be considering a third. It’s unfair, maybe, comparing him to John, but she’s thinking of the soldier who came home pale as a ghost and went upstairs without really seeing her, then woke her up at four in the morning with bloodshot eyes and said he was going to his sister’s because he couldn’t – couldn’t even finish his sentence, but he didn’t have to. And Sherlock’s brother is sitting here sipping tea as if it has been a rough week at the office.

“Sherlock’s rent will be due next week, am I correct?”

“Yes, but honestly, Mycroft, it’s –“

“I’ll write you a cheque for the full amount. Dr. Watson’s share as well.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“It’s only fair. In the lease, surely. You’ve lost a lodger unexpectedly. No advance notice.”

Macabre humor isn’t appreciated. She’s horrified. Mycroft can’t tell if he’s more disquieted by his lapse of judgement, or by the fact that, had Sherlock truly died, he might have made the same remark. He places the cup back on the saucer, frowning at the slight scratch of china against china. Small, but grating.

“In fact, Mrs. Hudson, I’d like to take over the lease for my brother. I’ll pay you monthly if you’ll agree to leave the flat just as it is.”

Her ears are tingling. Surely she misheard him.

“Well, I –“

“Dr. Watson will, of course, be allowed to continue living there, if that is his wish.”

“He’s –“ She breaks off, suddenly entirely uncertain of what she should reveal. She can’t see as it is any of Mycroft’s business. “I’m not sure of his plans.”

He sips his tea and glances around. Things are painfully clean. She’s been keeping herself busy. But in the hallway, a fine layer of dust. She’s missed her usual cleaning day. So she hasn’t gone upstairs. He’ll have to ask Sherlock if there are any decomposing items she’ll need to take care of before the grief passes.

“I don’t know, Mycroft. Don’t you want to take his things? I can’t see that they’ll do any good locked away upstairs.”

She could be imagining it, but he seems to be almost amused by this comment. It’s gone in a blink. Unexpectedly she’s reminded of his brother and the way he could appear so cold, but suddenly grin, or hug her, or dash through her kitchen and grab a piece of toast with shouted thanks as the door closed behind him. Always doing something that didn’t make sense until he slowed down to explain it to her. It shouldn’t make her tear up, but it does.

He shakes his head, sliding back into the role of grieving brother.

“I have no desire to go into that flat.”

“Oh, yes, well, I understand that. I’d be happy to keep it until you’re ready to go through everything.”

He gives a small smile of thanks and finishes his tea.

She doesn’t question that he knows the exact rent figure, nor that he has the cheque waiting in his pocket.

He slides it across the table and remembers to heave the tiniest of sighs. Regretful.

She reaches for it three times before she can force her fluttering fingers to maintain a grip on it. It feels too much like Mycroft is paying her off for something.

He adjusts his jacket and thinks that Sherlock is wrong, that money won’t help ease Mrs. Hudson over this.

“Thank you for your time.”

“You know, Mycroft, I’m – I’m really very…”

Several tears drop into her lap. She realizes she has no words for this man.

He clears his throat and discovers he can’t paste on a smile. Because watching her is just a little too close to it all being real. He won’t admit to Sherlock that it has been his nightmare for years.

She pulls herself together. He needn’t see her tears, not when he’s got to be dealing with his own.

“I expect I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“At the church, yes.”

He is relieved to find something safe to talk about. Schedules. Plans. Not sentimental woolgathering. He stands and reaches for his brolly.

She stands, too, thinking that if this were Sherlock, she’d just reach out and hug him. The idea of doing the same for his brother is foolish at best.

“Thank you again, Mrs. Hudson. Good day.”

“I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mycroft.” There, she said it all. “If there’s anything I can do…”

He doesn’t answer. She doesn’t expect him to.


End file.
